Winter's Light
by thelionhuntress
Summary: Hermione, fresh out of graduate school, is the new Hogwarts librarian. Five years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione finds herself forming new alliances and rekindling old ones in the aftermath of the war.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter I

Research, Hermione Granger found, was the solution to nightmares.

Staying up into the night writing and rewriting proposals to journals and conferences resulted in a deeper, dreamless sleep, free from the images of darkness that crept into her mind, stealing her breath and pinning her limbs to the bed.

Luckily, college at Oxford—and subsequently, graduate school—was full of workaholics who stayed up late with notes spread around them. No one questioned her constant presence in the student union and in the university's gorgeous libraries. Being around others kept the demons at bay; and, per usual, she'd always had piles of homework to do.

She'd kept the habit of pulling all-nighters even after graduation, and it served her well now as an adjunct researcher for the Ministry's Intermagical Innovations Office—a new department that researched integration of new Muggle technologies into wizarding homes. Five years ago it would have been a stretch, but as more wizards emerged from Muggle households, the divide was between their magic and non-magic lives was becoming increasingly difficult. The Ministry, in an attempt to preserve and protect the wizarding population, thought a move into the future would be a worthwhile effort. Hermione was inclined to agree; during school she'd developed a strong love for the internet and its many resources, and was reluctant to give it up should she return fully to the wizarding world.

Her brand new Master's degree in Librarianship was a bonus—she now had the freedom and skills to run libraries as she saw fit, and conduct her research without interference.

But she'd had doubts when Professor McGonagall (Minerva, she insisted on Hermione calling her now) had owled her with the job posting, looking for a new Hogwarts librarian after Madam Pince retired.

Hermione initially feared being back at Hogwarts bring back the memories of the war that continued to haunt her. Although the worst was gone, she suffered regularly from nightmares, and panic attacks that gripped her unexpectedly, and anxiety that left her with a perpetually knotted stomach. She reckoned that facing her fears could be freeing. Hadn't she learned that in Psychology 201?

She'd done well to maintain professional relations with the wizarding world even while she was at Oxford and, after that, living in a tiny flat in London while interning at the British Library, but she'd missed her fellow magical folk more than she could ever admit, even to herself.

So now, as an adult with several degrees under her belt, she found instead a new sense of comfort in the restored halls of the castle. Hermione had never told the others how sacred she found Hogwarts; like Harry, she'd found a home there, where knowledge and learning was encouraged, not mocked. But she had her own memories and favorite spots, and it was nice to be back. It was especially wonderful to explore without threat of expulsion or death.

Of course, Oxford had been a close second, but it was missing, well, the actual magic of Hogwarts.

And now she had a beautiful office with floor-to-ceiling windows, a large suite similar to those of the other Hogwarts faculty, and the beloved Hogwarts library all hers now, just begging to be dusted and re-catalogued.

Unfortunately, the many late nights meant that Hermione was often tired during the day. And on a rainy afternoon in early October, Hermione was fast asleep on her desk.

* * *

A sharp thud on her window abruptly pulled her out of her slumber.

Hermione sat up suddenly, swiping her arm across her desk. A teacup fell to the floor and shattered, spilling tea on a pile of notes.

"Damn it," she muttered, waving her wand casually. The broken shards flew back together, and the newly whole teacup rose and sat on her desk. Another flick of her wand dried the dripping parchment.

_Thud. Thud thud_. A brown owl tapped its beak against her window, a large parcel dangling from its tiny feet.

"Alright, alright!" she said, opening the window. The owl tumbled onto her desk, its wet feathers dousing her face with rain. She felt her unruly hair matted to her cheek, and impatiently brushed it back from her forehead.

Hermione quickly untied the parcel, and fished in the top drawer of her desk for an owl biscuit.

"Go by the fire," she said as the owl nipped gratefully at the treat and hobbled to the fireplace. The owl perched itself on the mantle and, a moment later, fell asleep.

Hermione picked up the parcel and weight it in her palm—books. Of course. She smiled, and smiled wider when she recognized the address written in none other than Harry Potter's handwriting. She'd recognize that chicken scratch penmanship anywhere.

Excited to hear from her old friend, she ripped open the package. The corners of the books were damp and starting to curl in. She raised an eyebrow at the titles—_Moonlit Forest, A Dance with Desire, Bewitching Hour,_ all with covers featuring scantily clad men and women embracing in dramatic poses.

A folded note slid off the top.

"Dear Hermione,

_How are you? I heard about your new position at Hogwarts. Congratulations! I'm slightly envious that you're living there now. I bet your quarters are stunning. Hopefully the new job suits you well. I'm sure the students will appreciate having a, well, younger presence around the library._

_Ginny thought you might want to add these books to your collection—you know her, she's not much of a romantic. They were gifts from her mum while she was in bed rest. Now that the baby's here I think she's had quite enough romance for some time. Unfortunate for me, of course, but little Leo sure is cute. I've sent you some photos—"_

Several photographs were included in the letter—Harry holding his new son Leo, whose jet black hair resembled his father's; Ginny waving from the hospital bed, looking radiant and relieved; and a closeup of Leo, his big dark eyes gazing at the camera.

Hermione pulled a jar of thumbtacks from her desk and pinned the photos next to those of her parents. She grinned in disbelief that Harry was now a father.

She read the rest of the letter.

_"Have you spoken to Ron? He stopped by to bring a baby gift for Leo. Mentioned something about a job opening at Hogwarts, teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. Said he was tired of being out on the field. Looks like you'll both be on our old stomping grounds._

_Hope you're doing well. Write soon! Perhaps over Thanksgiving break you can come visit us. Ginny sends her love, too._

_Harry_

_P.S._

_Given the nature of these novels, they should probably be put in the restricted section. Just a suggestion."_

Hermione's stomach clenched into a bundle of nerves. Ron was coming _here_? To work? She sighed and felt both slightly queasy and guilty. They hadn't necessarily parted on good terms. It'd been—what, five years? As if she didn't know, hadn't been subconsciously keeping track all this time. Although she'd known logically that it was only a matter of time before she'd see him, she figured it would be on her own terms. Whatever those would be, and sometime far, far in an undetermined future.

A clock chimed in the library. 5 o'clock already? Supper would be starting soon. As if on cue, her stomach growled. She stood up and stretched her arms above her head. The owl was fast asleep on the mantle, and she added another log to the fire. She let her hands linger in the warmth. These autumn nights were getting cooler, and a trip to Hogsmeade for some new sweaters was in order.

As she headed down to the dining hall she contemplated bringing dinner back to her office. She needed to be alone to figure out how she'd handle being around Ron. When is he coming? she wondered. And besides, she had several charts of data due to the Ministry by the end of the month that needed revising. She hoped a hot stew was being served for dinner… and maybe she could sneak up a flask of brandy… for warmth, of course…

She was so lost in thought that she ran straight into Draco Malfoy.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

"Malfoy!" Hermione said, stepping back and nearly tripping over her own feet. Malfoy didn't flinch. She suddenly felt sheepish and small. "What are you doing here?" Anger flared within her, toppled then by curiosity.

Draco Malfoy was here, roaming freely in Hogwarts' halls. She wasn't sure if she was OK with that, but reasoned that it wasn't her call to make. Apparently, the wizarding world had decided some time ago that he wasn't a threat.

"Granger," Draco responded, nodding curtly. The hallway outside the dining hall was dimly lit, but Hermione could see that he was dressed in a simple but tailored set of black robes, with a fine red stitching. "I'm here to meet with Professor McGonagall. I presume that shouldn't be a problem?"

She pursed her lips and contemplated a response, crossing her arms defensively across her chest. "I suppose not. I just haven't seen you since, well, the—"

"War?" he said. His eyes flashed darkly, and the corner of his mouth twitched unpleasantly. "Yes, well. After Father died, Mother and I tried our best to—make amends with the wizarding world."

If she didn't know any better, Hermione would say he was blushing with shame. Hermione was struck suddenly by his humility—she'd never, ever seen such a trait in Draco. The war certainly changed us all, she thought. It wasn't easy for any of us.

She felt simultaneously furious and sympathetic.

She'd always been far more sympathetic toward him than either Ron or Harry, a trait often misunderstood for passivity rather than compassion. As a child, she'd known kids born into abusive homes, how it shaped their perspective on the world even at a young age. It was hard to change that kind of deeply rooted aggression. But around their sixth year, that sympathy had been edged out by anger-anger at those who were too weak to stand up for what was right. Anger that her teen years and schooling were being pushed aside for war; angry at the unnecessary blood feud that Malfoy and his comrades perpetuated. She'd never understood their stake in it anyway.

There would never be any excuse for his behavior, terrible upbringing or not. The brief moment of sympathy she was feeling also didn't excuse the many times Malfoy had tormented her in class or in the hall. Recalling the times he'd spat Mudblood at her made her chest seize up.

But there was something about Malfoy's stiff and insecure demeanor that made her understand his snotty behavior in a way she hadn't before. _It's not like he was the only person who ever bullied me,_ she thought, recalling Severus Snape, who'd arguably been worse toward her even though he was a professor. And besides, Malfoy had Lucius Malfoy for a father. Being back out in the Muggle world for so long had made her far more critical about the upbringing of young wizards.

She favored civility, even if she didn't entirely mean it. Politeness went a long way, even with former enemies—at least, that's what her grandmother always said. "I'm glad to see you're doing well, Draco," she replied earnestly, as his face blanched at her use of his first name, and continued toward the Great Hall.

"Granger—er, Hermione," Draco called after her. She stopped and turned toward him. "I—um," he looked down at his shoes. "Um. You too."

* * *

_Well, that could have been worse_, thought Draco Malfoy, as he watched Hermione Granger walk away. He'd been nervous about running into his former classmates, expecting hexes and insults thrown his way. He couldn't blame them even if they did—his family had supported one of the worst wizards in history, caused the deaths of hundreds of innocent wizards. They'd been on the wrong side, and it would take a lifetime at least to atone for that.

Plus, he'd been an awful prat during his time at Hogwarts.

But Draco would never admit to anyone that his time at Hogwarts was the scariest time of his life. What young boy wouldn't be frightened at frequent face-to-face meetings with Voldemort? At the threats from his father? The pressure to do horrible, hurtful, violent things?

Although he knew it didn't forgive his actions, he knew that fear had motivated much of his aggression.

But after Harry destroyed Voldemort, Draco and his mother sat in silence for days in their empty manor. Draco had been sick with guilt, tormented by it. He found himself shaking at the dinner table, unable to hold a cup or a fork. How could he have been so stupid? So blind to his father's prejudice? Draco had believed in it, too, idolizing his father—until he saw the bloodshed firsthand.

He'd been given a way out—by Dumbledore, by Snape—and he'd turned them away in the name of upholding his family's name. A name now synonymous with hate.

It was only after months visiting his mother's therapist at St. Mungo's therapy branch that Draco was able to come to terms with what he'd done. His mother vowed to dedicate herself to charity work.

As for Draco, he decided to get a degree.

Eager to delve into school in a way he never could at Hogwarts—and mercifully saved by the good grades he'd managed to obtain—he was accepted into a small, private wizarding college in Budapest, where he studied History of Magic. It was his hope that he could educate students on the many years of oppression and marginalized people and creatures throughout wizarding history. It helped that he had a bit of anonymity there; although the wizarding war impacted international wizards, they weren't quite as familiar with who was on which side.

This allowed him to blend in, for once, in a way he never had before. He grew his hair out and grew a beard, and even contemplated changing his name. But he knew that would be a cop out. A lifetime of living with it would serve as penance.

"Understanding the past helps us change the future," his professor had said. Draco took this to heart.

And, much to his surprise, Professor McGonagall—Minerva, she asked him to call her now, but he wasn't sure he could yet—had owled him during his second year of teaching introductory history at Durmstrang, inviting him back to Hogwarts. On a whim, he accepted the invitation to reform Slytherin house, a house left in shame and shambles after the war.

_It's time to reunite Hogwart's houses,_ Professor McGonagall had written. _This is your chance to make a difference._

Of course he'd run headfirst into Hermione Granger on his first day back. But the encounter had been pleasant enough, and he'd heard she'd taken over Madam Pince's job. She looked much the same, of course, but older, less soft. Adulthood didn't change her most familiar features, but she seemed to grow into them. She'd pinned her hair back, but he could tell from the way it struggled to pull loose from the pins that it was still a curly mop she struggled to deal with. It was a surprisingly effective look for a young librarian.

And that smile, the same in most ways, but more sure now—revealing white, even teeth behind a lovely mouth. Academia suited her. And the lack of sarcasm that had normally plagued their brief interactions certainly helped.

_Merlin's beard_, he thought. _Am I actually thinking about Hermione Granger?_ He chuckled to himself. He'd changed, that's for sure, but he wasn't sure he'd changed that much.

But even as he headed toward Minerva's office, he couldn't get that smile out of his head. It was a smile of forgiveness. A second chance.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III

Ron Weasley ran a hand through his unwashed hair and tossed a shirt toward the open suitcase on his bed. But he missed, and it instead hit the sleeping young woman underneath his covers.

She stirred awake, and sat up, long blonde hair falling over her naked shoulders. "What time is it?" she asked, groggy.

"8 p.m.," he responded. "I need to get going soon. You need money for a cab?"

The woman shook her head and slid out of bed, pulling on her jeans, shirt and jacket. With her shoes in her hand, she walked toward him and draped an arm over his shoulder.

"Thanks for the fun weekend, love," she breathed into his ear. Her breath smelled like vodka, and Ron resisted the urge to flinch. "Call me next time you're in town."

He nodded but avoided her eyes. "Uh, yeah, sure," he muttered.

She kissed his cheek and walked out of his room. He waited until he heard his apartment door shut before sitting on his bed and putting his head in his hands.

He was immediately grateful for the solitude. The blonde was the third girl he'd brought home this week. It wasn't an unusual pattern for him—frequent traveling meant new cities, new bars, new women to meet and fuck and leave.

But it felt different this time and he knew why. He was about to see Hermione Granger for the first time in five years.

One on hand, he was very much looking forward to being back at Hogwarts. Being an Auror was thrilling, that's for sure, but it was also dangerous and exhausting. For once, Ron just wanted to stay in one place for a while, and was thankful Professor McGonagall offered him the job at Hogwarts, set to start in the spring term when Professor Levya—the current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, a witch from Russia—would leave for a two-year sabbatical tracking giants in Sweden.

The next few months would give him time to wrap up his report on his latest case, a gang of Summus dealers he'd been busting all over Europe. Summus was nasty stuff, a drug made from the sap of slender white trees found in the forests of Romania. Ingested by brewing it as a tea, it slowed down time for the user, which made it especially useful for thieves. But it also rotted your teeth.

He'd finally taken down the last of the dealers a week prior in an underground Dublin pub. A difficult firefight had ensued, but Ron was especially good at shield charms, and the Imperius curse the dealer cast had bounced straight off, ricocheting right back at him. From there it was a cakewalk. _Easy to bind someone when you can tell them to put their hands behind their back_, Ron thought.

The take-down was satisfying, but with Harry—his partner—on paternity leave, Ron was lonely. Hogwarts was as good a place as any to regroup.

Plus, if he was honest with himself, he really missed the food.

But he couldn't admit to himself that he missed Hermione. Hell, he didn't even know anything about her life now. At this point, Ron wasn't even sure if he did miss her, or if he was just angry with her—angry that she'd chosen to leave him when he needed her most.

* * *

_It was August, just months after the battle, and they were in her old bedroom at her parents' house. She'd been packing her duffel bag, putting books in and taking them out. She'd been pacing the room._

_"I love you, Ron, but I have to think about my future," she'd said._

_"Think of all we've been through together," he'd shouted in return. He'd been shaking, on the verge of sobbing. "You're just going to leave after all this?"_

_"That's exactly why I have to leave, Ron!" she said. "I'm 18 years old. I've spent the last few years following you and Harry around to make sure you didn't get yourselves killed!"_

_"We saved the world, Hermione!" At this point he had grabbed her by the shoulders. "No one else will ever know what you've been through more than me!"_

_"Ron, it's just college," she said quietly. "It's Oxford! I can't turn that down."_

_"It's Muggle college!" he said, trembling. "You'll be surrounded by strangers!"_

_"It's a new start for me, Ron." She lowered his hands away from her shoulders. "I need this. I need some—normalcy." Her face was covered with tears. "You need to think about yourself, and your career—don't you want to be an Auror? What about your future?"_

_"My future doesn't exist without you in it," he'd said._

* * *

That had been their last exchange. And for the past five years it haunted Ron every night.

He was ready for Hogwarts, but he wasn't ready to face Hermione again. After all I've been through in five years, you'd think I'd be braver, he thought. I was never strong when it came to Hermione.

An hour passed before Ron finally stood up and slammed his suitcase shut.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV

Hermione nearly spilled a canteen of hot stew on herself as she tried to open the door to her suite, her hands full with the dinner the house elves had packed for her downstairs. Her room, rather than her office, would give her more privacy, she figured. And she really needed a place to think.

She refused to let the house elves deliver dinner straight to her room, resentful that Hogwarts still permitted what she considered to be house elf slavery, but permitted them to fetch her to-go containers. They'd also brought Hermione a platter of macarons, which she gleefully accepted.

But about halfway to her room, she was regretting asking for a bag, too. With the containers tucked under her chin, she reached into her pocket for her wand and muttered, "Alohomora." After a moment, the handle swung open, and she freed her hands, setting out on her desk the various containers: beef stew, warm rolls, and a thermos of ice cold pumpkin juice. And of course, the macarons, on which Hermione could hardly stop herself from nibbling.

Hermione was off for the weekend, and thoroughly looking forward to having a few days off to process the news she'd been given today about Ron's impending arrival. She had some reading to do for an upcoming project for the IIO, some charts to format, and she desperately needed to go shopping—especially since she'd just been told by Minerva about the upcoming Halloween ball, which would also be a five-year reunion party for the students of her year. That was another event to think about; it'd been several years since she'd seen most of the wizarding population.

After years of priding herself on being low-maintenance, Hermione had eventually wised up to the necessity of a simple and effective beauty routine. She'd spent her teen years in understated robes, her hair in wild disarray. After going to conferences, defenses and job interviews, she preferred to have a few nice outfits on hand, and appreciated techniques to keep her hair in its natural state but out of the way.

But now, she was ready to stuff her face with dinner and snuggle up into bed with her new fluffy gray feline, Penelope. She'd adopted Penelope after her parents took Crookshanks in when she went off to college—it was harder for him to move at his old age, and she thought it best for him to live out his days with her parents. Neither the cat nor her parents seemed to mind the arrangement.

Penelope gave a cheerful mew when Hermione crossed the room to pet her. Hermione had a very strict routine at the end of the day—greet Penelope, change into pajamas, wash her face and pin her hair up.

She did these tasks quickly and sat down at her desk, piling food onto a plate. She bit into a garlic role and sighed blissfully—after several years of dormitory food, even at Oxford, she vowed never to take Hogwarts' feasts for granted again.

After eating her fill—and letting Penelope nibble on some green beans—Hermione settled into bed early. With Penelope purring against her stomach, Hermione quickly drifted into a restless sleep.

* * *

She awoke early on Saturday, feeble rays of sunlight streaming through a gray sky. With her luck, it wouldn't rain until the afternoon, allotting Hermione several leisurely hours for shopping.

Penelope nuzzled against her neck, and Hermione savored the comfort for several minutes before sliding out from under the warm blankets to take a shower.

She stretched, arms extended above her head, and stripped her pajamas on the way to the bathroom. She had a headache that only coffee would fix. And there was a new café in Hogsmeade she'd been meaning to try—apparently they made the best pumpkin spice latte this side of Scotland.

The shower started automatically when Hermione opened the bathroom door to the stone chamber, and within seconds the room was full of jasmine-scented steam. Hermione _adored_ this bathroom; it reminded her of the prefect's bathroom when she was a student, but this one she had all to herself. The ceilings were high and arched, with a window above the bathtub, placed to ensure privacy but also to allow natural light to stream into the room. The sink and counter were dark and marbled and wide, and Hermione took great care to select the most beautiful soaps and toiletries to adorn it. It was her secret guilty pleasure.

Hermione stepped into the warm stream of water, her muscles relaxing in the heat. Without opening her eyes, she placed her hand under the shampoo dispenser. A dollop dispensed into her hand and she ran it through her hair, shaking off the grime of sleep.

Showering was such a luxury, she thought, and this bathroom was certainly luxurious with a stone floor that warmed under her feet, an endless supply fluffy fresh towels, and soaps and lotions in her favorite scents—lavendar, jasmine, vanilla, mint.

Ron always smelled like mint. She wasn't a dentists' daughter for nothing; the smell of mint provoked strong but pleasant memories. Memories of kissing Ron… his breath on her neck, the inside of her thigh…

Her hand—a moment ago lathering soap on her shoulders—began to inch its way down her torso at the thought.

She stopped abruptly, feeling foolish.

_Get a grip, Hermione!_ she told herself sternly. _He is just a man. He was once your best friend, besides Harry. You're unraveling and he isn't even here yet._

Hermione rinsed off quickly and stepped out into the foggy bathroom. She needed a walk in the brisk October air to clear her head.

When she stepped out of the shower, Penelope was perched on a pile of warm blankets. She cocked her head at Hermione.

"Don't you start with me," she told the cat.

An hour later and Hermione was dressed in her coziest autumn clothing under her standard black robe; a V-neck black sweater with thumbholes on the ends of the sleeves, a simple blue skirt and red stockings. She placed a wet kiss on Penelope's small forehead, and grabbed her canvas bookbag and her Gryffindor scarf before heading out.

One of Hermione's favorite privileges as a Hogwarts faculty member was the freedom to visit Hogsmeade anytime she wanted. This privilege was especially lovely when there weren't dozens of students meandering around the town. She liked to keep her personal life private from the students. She might be a librarian, but she refused to fall into the stereotype of being a frumpy, bespectacled cat lady.

The crisp autumn air eased Hermione's throbbing head, and she tried to think logically about the "Ron situation," as she'd come to call it. She approached everything in her life with logic.

Unnecessary emotional baggage just didn't have a place in her data-driven life. But she knew she was better at maintaining that on the outside; truthfully, her stomach was a ball of nerves.

There was no reason they couldn't get along and be civil, maybe even be friends again. For all she knew, she tried to justify to herself, he was seeing someone and had moved on.

_But Harry would have said so in a letter, right?_

_That's irrelevant, Granger._

As she argued with herself, her temples throbbed.

_Coffee first._

The new café, Wolf and Fox, was situated in central Hogsmeade. Hermione nearly salivated at the scent of warm poppyseed muffins when she entered the cafe—she ordered one to go, and a large pumpkin latte with an extra shot of espresso. Sitting on the bench in front of the dress shop, the brisk wind pushing her braided hair off her shoulders, she started to feel like herself again with something in her stomach and a jolt of caffeine shaking her out of her dilemma.

_This is nothing you can't handle,_ she told herself in her best rallying inner-voice. _You fought in a war. You graduated from college. Hell, you successfully published a Master's thesis. And this is what gets you worked up? A relationship that ended over five years ago? With someone you've known since you were 11?_

She stood up defiantly and tossed her empty coffee cup into the trash can. Resolute in her ability to suppress old romantic turmoil, she walked into the dress shop, determined to find the most Hermione-esque dress in existence for the upcoming Halloween reunion ball.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter V

Thunder growled loudly when Hermione left Hogsmeade two hours later, several bags in hand—three tailored robes with stitching in olive, oxblood and black, a few knit sweaters, and a surprisingly stylish navy blue long sleeve dress that came to just above her knee. Simple, fitted, with a few gold buttons on the collar and a brown leather belt around the waist, it was perfect.

She hurried back to the castle, shivering as a light sprinkle quickly turned into a heavy downpour and soaked through her sweater. The weather in Scotland was prone to changing on a moment's notice, but she'd been sure she'd had more time.

The tassels of her scarf lashed against her face; her hair pulled loose from the braids and whipped across her eyes and mouth. She wished she had brought a jacket—finding temporary shelter under a tree, she shrunk her bags down to fit in her pockets, and cast a quick drying spell on her scarf.

But she barely reached the outer limits of the Quidditch field before she was again soaked to the bone. Next time, bring a raincoat, idiot, she reprimanded herself. Her stomach growled. She needed tea and some lunch—it was nearly noon.

"Need a hand?"

She almost didn't hear Draco Malfoy's offer for help; the rain was pouring heavy and loud now, splashing against muddy ground. Draco was standing near the Slytherin stands with an umbrella in his hand.

"Um," she hesitated, and shivered against her will. "Sure. What are you doing out here?"

He held the umbrella out for her and she stepped underneath. "I could see you from my classroom window," he replied.

"Oh." She felt mildly uncomfortable at the thought of Draco watching her. Together they headed toward the castle, taking quick, small steps to stay under the umbrella without touching one another.

"Well, thanks," she said once they reached the Quidditch locker rooms. She muttered and waved her wand across her clothes, and the heat spread quickly from the warming spell. "I can probably take it from here."

Draco collapsed the umbrella and shook it. A puddled formed near his feet. "Are you heading to lunch, by chance? I, well, had some ideas I wanted to discuss with you."

Hermione was having trouble wrapping her head around this new—and dare she say, improved?—Draco. His voice had lost much of its snark, favoring sincerity these days, it seemed. And he dressed casually, like the other professors, in simple robes with subtle details, a far cry from his elegant and elaborate dress clothes during his time as a student. Adulthood had darkened his formerly white-blonde hair into a light gold; slightly windblown, it was combed back away from his face, a slight dusting of facial hair outlining his chin and mouth.

He looked, well, quite nice, she admitted. And less tired, too; there were no longer the heavy circles she'd gotten used to seeing under his pale blue eyes. _He was never _not_ handsome_, she reasoned, but it's hard to find someone attractive when their every action toward you is full of hatred and prejudice. Was he really that different now?

Hermione wasn't sure yet.

She'd been a gullible child, always trusting too easily and willing to overlook most flaws. After Gilderoy Lockhart had revealed himself to be a cowardly fraud, Sirius Black turned out not to be a convict, and her first few hundred interactions with Mad-Eye Moody were, in fact, not with the _real_ Mad-Eye Moody, Hermione had become a certified skeptic by the time she was 15.

People changed—she knew that as much, and believed it, knowing that she herself had changed significantly in the past few years. It would be possible to _forgive_ Draco, she thought tentatively; _forgetting_ the hurt he'd caused her and her friends would take longer.

She looked into the face of her former enemy, surprised and pleased that at least someone had been seemingly changed for good after the fight against Voldemort. And if the war had taught her anything, it was that second chances were hard to come by. She could afford to give him one.

"Yes, I'll have lunch with you," she said, warily. His face brightened, and Hermione stifled a winch.

They walked together toward lunch, Hermione wringing the rain from her hair. In the entrance of the Great Hall, she saw Minerva, and walked over to say hello.

Minerva turned to greet her. "Ah, Miss Granger! I suspect you'll want to greet your old friend. Mr. Weasley, I'll come check on you once you've had some time to settle in."

Hermione turned wildly to the man now standing in front her. She had not been expecting to see Ron so soon. He stood awkwardly, his brown coat sprinkled with raindrops, his suitcase clasped in one hand, dripping rain onto his sneakers.

Ron Weasley looked exactly the same and yet completely different, and Hermione's brain struggled to comprehend this—seeing someone she'd known so well, so intimately, after several years of estrangement was throwing her logic for a loop.

He seemed huskier, taller, stronger, more substantial all around. His hair, red and vibrant as ever, was longer now, parted casually to the side, resting above his eyes. A five o'clock shadow lined his face and mouth.

She felt like her stomach fell out of her body.

"Ron!" she exclaimed, running a hand through her wet hair. She was sure the gesture was anything but graceful, especially when her fingers hit a tangle. "I… wasn't sure when you'd be arriving. Harry told me you were coming. In a letter, that is. That you were coming to teach? Here at Hogwarts?" Her voice nearly squeaked as the pitch rose. _Dammit, Granger, way to play it cool_. She glanced at Draco, who raised an amused eyebrow and was practically smirking.

Ron said nothing yet—he opened his mouth, like he was about to say something, but chose instead to give a curt nod. He looked like he couldn't speak.

_Is he still so furious with me even after all this time?_

She began to panic.

"Malfoy—er, Draco, sorry, I think we'll have to reschedule our discussion," she said, flashing what she hoped was an apologetic face at Draco. "Maybe at dinner? I have to run."

Hermione turned on her heel and dashed toward her room.

Ron had hoped for a quiet and calm return to Hogwarts. He arrived just as lunch was starting—Minerva greeted him in the entrance to give him directions to his room. He'd spent nearly seven years in the castle and still had much to learn about it.

Chicken pot pies lined the long tables of the Great Hall as lunch began—he could smell the welcoming scents drifting into the foyer. This was certainly the best perk about being back at Hogwarts.

Just as he was beginning to feel back at home, he was startled to see Hermione Granger standing in front of him.

Hermione, hair darkened from rain. Hermione, smelling like jasmine. Hermione, eyes wide and lips open. Hermione, looking—well, the same, but slightly older; she carried herself differently now, despite looking nearly as frazzled as he felt.

His breath caught in his throat.

_Well, shit. So much for resolve_. This was _not _how he thought this would go. He'd been prepared for a cold but polite interaction in a controlled environment, at least after he'd had something to eat.

And, of course, she'd standing next to Draco Malfoy, quite possibly the boy—man, now—he still hate most in this world.

He could say nothing. He felt like he was going to be sick. Ron had never been good at controlling his temper, although Auror training had helped him find ways to suppress it. But anger flared easily within him—his face and ears began to burn.

Hermione ran a hand through her hair, a gesture so natural and familiar that Ron was momentarily distracted. Then she had babbled something that his brain barely comprehended, and then _ran_ away from him, like she couldn't even stand to be in his presence, and in a moment she had been there and then she wasn't.

_Is she still so eager to get away from me?_ he thought, feeling betrayal and anger once again, new and raw, a wound that had never been given the proper care to heal. He felt like nothing had changed, like not a day had passed yet when she'd left him to cope, alone.

_Get a grip, Ron_, he scolded himself. _Have you learned nothing from being an Auror? People are unreliable. They hurt each other. Even the good ones. Especially the good ones._

He'd barely registered that Malfoy was still standing there.

"Uh, hello," Malfoy said. "I just returned as well. Looks like we'll be working together." He held out a hand for Ron to shake.

Ron didn't return it. He wasn't hungry anymore. He gripped his suitcase and set off toward his room, leaving a discouraged Draco standing alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter VI

Draco curled his outstretched hand into a fist. _That_ interaction had been much more aligned with his expectations, he thought bitterly. He hardly expected Weasley to come around anytime soon, but at least he hadn't punched him in the face.

And Hermione, stuttering like a fool and dashing off in a hurry, nearly slipping in the puddle her wet hair had left on the floor. _What on earth had that been about?_ He'd seen her frazzled and rambling before, but figured she'd overcome that awkwardness in her time away from Hogwarts.

There was plenty of unresolved tension between her and Ron; that much was obvious.

Draco sneered. He'd only been back at Hogwarts for a week and already he was pulled back into the incessant drama of the Golden Trio—well, two-thirds of it. He'd been pleased to hear that Harry Potter was now a family man with no intentions of returning to Hogwarts. He had just been informed the day before about Ron Weasley's arrival but apparently was given more notice than Hermione.

So much for lunch. In a way, he'd been looking forward to a simple and pleasant meal with Hermione, who seemed wary of him but willing to listen. That was all he wanted—and expected—at this point. The day before, he'd had a long meeting with Minerva about programs to promote mingling among the four school houses. He had a plan to start a competitive chess club in the library, but figured Hermione would prefer that he ask permission before he invaded her turf with a bunch of squabbling first-years.

_Maybe I__'__ll just owl her_, he thought grimly.

Draco glanced at the Great Hall. He wasn't hungry anymore, and decided he'd rather finish dusting the cabinets in his classroom. He wouldn't begin teaching until January, once the current professor—Professor Morgan, a spritely elderly woman with a passion for veela feminist theory—left the post to start the new Magical Crafts and Trades department with Professor Trelawny. In the meantime, he'd been assigned School Spirit Duty, a task that his younger self would have found repulsive. But truthfully, he was rather looking forward to facilitating some positive interactions between students of different houses. He'd experienced enough interhouse fighting to last a lifetime.

Draco walked down the hallway toward his classroom. As he rounded the corner, a pair of hands emerged from the shadows and grabbed him roughly by his collar.

Ron Weasley pinned him to the wall, pulled his wand out of his pocket, and aimed it at Draco's throat.

"What are you doing here?" Ron seethed. "You and your entire family deserve to rot in Azkaban."

"I—" Draco struggled to speak with Ron's hand around his neck. "I was pardoned by the Ministry. I'm—I'm here to help make things right. McGonagall _asked me to come_."

"You got my brother killed," Ron said, his voice low and nearly trembling from anger. "Lestrange almost killed my sister. Do you know how many of our classmates died by the hands of your allies? Because you were too much of a coward to be on the right side?" He spat in Draco's face and tightened his grip.

Draco said nothing, feeling shame and sadness swell in his chest as the saliva slid down his nose; he felt the pressure of tears behind his eyes, threatening to unravel. Images of his classmate's bodies cycled in his mind. People he hadn't necessarily cared for, but still, people too young to be killed so brutally, their lifeless faces staring up at the Great Hall ceiling as the war waged on.

_Oh no_. He felt the beginnings of a panic attack. His breath caught in his throat, and he pulled at his robes, trapped in his clothes, the fabric tight around his neck. Sweat trickled down the side of his face.

"Pl—please," he gasped, stomach churning. "I can't—I can't breathe."

Ron smiled—a cold, hateful smile. "Never thought I'd be the one to make you beg, Malfoy."

The tip of Ron's want pressed further into Draco's throat.

"Ron!"

There was a flash of white light—the pressure on Draco's neck lifted as a spell sent Ron flying backward.

Draco rubbed his neck and took a deep breath. When he looked up, he saw Hermione standing, wand outstretched.

"One day back and you've already found someone to torture!" she screamed at Ron. Her dark brown hair was drying into tight ringlets that bounced around her face, aglow with rage.

Ron patted the floor wildly for his wand, then scrambled to his feet.

"Are you bloody mad?" he yelled in response. "Are you honestly defending this monster?" Once again he pointed his wand at Draco. "After all he did to us? To you?"

"I'm _not_ defending him—just because you're an Auror doesn't mean you can abuse your power, you peurile arse!" Hermione replied, the pitch of her voice rising. "This is so typical of you. Refusing to acknowledge that people change and letting your irrational emotions control everything! We aren't teenagers anymore, Ron!"

Draco's throat ached. He didn't know what to do. He stayed put, straightening his collar.

"Oh right, I forgot how much of a _social justice fighter_ you are!" Ron snapped. "Because trusting a murdering scumbag like him is such a logical thing to do!" He glared furiously at Hermione, refusing to make eye contact with Draco. "Do you know the things I've seen out there since I've become an Auror? While you were off gallivanting at Muggle uni, some of us were dealing with criminals and doing something important for wizards. Not running away from their fears!"

At this, Hermione's anger flared; spots of pink pulsed on her cheeks. She could barely speak. Draco feared the worst.

Instead, Hermione lowered her wand and inhaled sharply, her mouth pursed in a tight line. She grabbed Draco's arm. He felt her trembling hand and felt compelled to cover it with his own.

"Come on, Draco," she muttered. Ignoring Ron, his mouth still hanging open, she steered Draco into his classroom down the hall and shut the door behind them. The room was cool and dark. Draco muttered and flicked his wand, and the room's candles lit up. Outside, the rain continued to pour, the sunlight blotted out by heavy stormclouds.

It took several moments for Hermione to regain her composure. She rounded on him, clearly still in the thick of arguing.

"And you!" she said, turning to him. "Don't think you're back in the clear just because Professor McGonagall thinks you're a changed man. Your cowardice got me tortured!" She yanked the left sleeve of her sweater—Draco saw an angry-looking Mudblood, four inches in length, carved into her forearm. "It won't go away. I've tried everything. Lestrange tortured and cursed me and I'll wear that scar forever, thanks to you." She paused, her lip trembling. "The nightmares I've had, reliving the Cruciatus… that pain… I can't say it's easy being around you again, Draco."

Draco tried to find his voice. "I know. Hermione, I don't even know where to begin. I'm just—" He bit his lip, fighting back another wave of panic and sorrow. "I'm just sorry, alright? I know that doesn't change anything. I won't make excuses. I just want to do something good." He couldn't stand looking her in the eye, her face streaked with tears, flushed from anger. "I don't even know how to be a good person. Maybe I shouldn't have come here after all."

Hermione softened—her shoulders relaxed, and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "No," she said. "No, I think you should stay. You have a lot to do to prove yourself, Draco. But just stay away from Ron, OK? He and I have some—issues. I can't follow you around to protect you from his outbursts."

Draco nodded, guilt sitting in his stomach like a ball of lead. He'd been nothing but horrible to Hermione Granger from the moment he met her, and here she was, after everything, helping him. Defending him. Offering him an olive branch.

He chose to take it. It had been a long time since he'd had anything remotely close to a friend. This, he figured, was as good a start as any.

Hermione ran a hand through her hair, now in tangles, as she headed toward the door. Before leaving the room, she paused and turned to Draco. "Let's try again. Want to have lunch tomorrow?"

"Yes," Draco replied without thinking. "Yes. I'd like that very much."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter VII

Hermione was relieved that Ron was nowhere to be seen once she emerged from the chilly classroom. She took a moment to lean against the door, close her eyes and take a deep breath before making a break for her room.

Just to be safe, she took the long route back to her room, walking quickly, her wet boots squeaking on the stone floor. A trail of water was left along the floor, and she hoped—even now, as an adult—that Filch, older and grouchier than ever, wouldn't reprimand her for the mess.

She hurried inside her room and closed the door, heading straight toward her bathtub. At the hurried movements, Penelope raised her head from her paw and blinked, annoyed at the disturbance from her afternoon nap.

"Don't ask," Hermione muttered at the cat.

The hot water filled the tub, and she selected an extra dose of vanilla bubblebath. She stripped her wet socks and placed the sopping pile in sink.

She sank into the tub without testing the water first. Her cold skin and stiff muscles relaxed instantly, even while her mind buzzed and replayed the events of the afternoon.

_Oh god_, she sighed with partial relief and partial horror. _What on earth just happened?_

After running away from Draco and Ron outside of the Great Hall—rather ungracefully, she acknowledged, as heat spread to her cheeks—she'd paused in a dark hallway to gain composure. She'd been squeezing the moisture from her hair when she heard a pounding sound and hushed, angry voices. It took only moments to identify Ron, whose raised voice began to echo in the hall. A second later and she'd pulled out her wand without thinking, turning the corner to find Ron with his wand at Draco's neck. And after an exchange of bitter words, she'd chosen a defiant and silent exit with Draco over bickering, too furious to speak. It would take her a while to sort through what Ron had said, but she suppressed the renewed wave of anger by adding more soap to the bathwater.

And Draco. He looked positively devastated in the dark, empty classroom, she thought, recalling his light gray eyes, caught by the feeble afternoon light. A look of sadness, shame, and defeat on his face. She hadn't meant to add to his shame by shouting at him and revealing her scars, but she needed to know he had truly matured before investing any of her time in a former enemy.

But his face had brightened at the promise of lunch and that told her all she needed to know. And, truth be told, now that Ron was back, she could use an ally. And a distraction.

_What next?_ she wondered, lifting a leg out of the tub and gazing at her toes. She needed a pedicure, she thought absently, before snapping her attention back to the matter at hand. Ron was clearly still very angry with her, and even angrier still with Draco, to the point of violently accosting him in a hallway in the middle of the day. Somehow, they must find a sense of civility. Their work duties would be enough to keep them busy most of the time, but there was still the problem of meals. Perhaps if she attended breakfast earlier, they wouldn't cross paths; he was never a morning person, after all…

No. This was absurd. Long gone were the days of her tolerating the immaturity of Ron and Harry. They weren't teenagers anymore. Ron would have to learn to be decent toward her and Draco, or she'd address it with Minerva. And take matters into her own hand. Had he forgotten what she'd done to Rita Skeeter?

Well, perhaps she wouldn't go quite that far again, even if the thrill of scheming had been terribly exciting.

The best thing to do at this point was continue living her life the way she had been—delving into her work and her research, learning how to cope with lingering haunting nightmares, while somehow befriending Draco Malfoy and preparing to see her old classmates at the upcoming ball. It was possible to find a balance, right?

_After all_, she thought as she stepped out of the bathtub and into a warm towel, _I've been through worse._


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter VIII

Ron wanted to kick himself.

He didn't, for a second, feel remotely bad about cornering Malfoy in the hallway. Even with Malfoy's persuading façade of "recovering evil git," Ron was hardly convinced that Malfoy was some shining example of humanity. Even if Hermione and Professor McGonagall—no way in hell he could get used to calling her Minerva—thought Malfoy was worthy of a second chance, Ron had learned that some people in the world were just bad people. It wasn't a new philosophy; he'd believed in that ever since he was a child, after witnessing the bullying his father had to tolerate from wizards at work. And after a few years as an Auror, he'd seen more than enough violence and crime to solidify the philosophy.

Some people were just outright corrupt, right down to the core, and Draco Malfoy was no different. He failed to believe anything would convince him otherwise.

But he couldn't help but squirm with embarrassment that on his first day back, Hermione had found him with his wand at Draco's throat. She always had a way of finding him in compromising situations, but he wasn't an awkward teenager anymore. He had planned to keep things distant with her, at least until he could find it in himself to resist snarky or sarcastic comments in her presence. Truthfully, her demeanor earlier had unarmed him; add Malfoy to that equation, and much of the resolve he'd learned in Auror academy had momentarily evaporated.

Anger at Malfoy had overwhelmed him, but he hadn't really intended on hurting the smug bastard. He was aware of McGonagall's arrangement. And he had not expected Hermione to come to Malfoy's defense without question. By the time they'd left Hogwarts to find the Horcruxes, he thought Hermione was well past sympathy for Death Eaters. Then again, she'd always been kinder to people like Malfoy.

This wasn't, Ron thought, necessarily a good thing.

Plus, Ron wouldn't have done anything to get him sacked on his first day back. He was grateful for the reprieve from Aurorship, eager to spend time at Hogwarts without the threat of war at his back. And even—he admitted only to himself—to experience some time at Hogwarts without Harry, to whom he'd been attached at the hip since they met.

Hogwarts had always been, quite literally, a castle to Ron. After a childhood spent in the cozy but cramped disarray of the Burrow, the dormitory had been heaven—a large bed, his own trunk, and space to actually stretch and move and not be crowded by his ever-squabbling siblings. While his memories of school were largely overshadowed by their constant efforts against Voldemort, there were many moments of Hogwarts that he cherished—staying up late in the night playing Exploding Snap with Harry, the curtains of the bed pulled around them to block out the noise; rainy afternoons playing chess with Hermione in the firelit common room; a sneak into the kitchen for a plate of crisps or cookies.

His new quarters, now, were especially luxurious. He thought so even after staying in some of the most magnificent hotels throughout Europe, working on various cases for the Ministry. But nothing compared to the history and charm of Hogwarts.

His room was on the east side of the castle, with a large window that overlooked a wide expanse of field. In a few weeks, it'd be covered with snow. He liked the cold well enough, except when the weather was too blustery to play Quidditch. Coaching—that was something he wanted to ask McGonagall about next time he saw her.

As he sat at his new desk to write down himself a reminder, his stomach growled loudly. He'd missed lunch after his ordeal with Malfoy, snacking only on a plate of wafers left on a platter atop the nightstand. And he'd taken a quick nap in his new bed, covered with feather blankets and lined with flannel sheets. The familiarity was a welcome comfort.

The small owl-shaped clock on the desk told him it was nearly 5 o'clock. There was no way he was missing a Hogwarts dinner on his first day back. He'd get to sit at the faculty table this time, he remembered, grinning to himself. Who would have thought—he, Ron Weasley, an Auror and a Hogwarts professor?

And he'd be sitting alongside Hermione, a thought that once would have pleased him—a successful life with her was once all he wanted.

And still? He wasn't sure these days. A steady career, a few good friends, a consistent stream of lovers—what more could a young man want?

His stomach growled again. Hunger, apparently, trumped introspective thoughts.

Dinner first. Soul-searching was easier with a full stomach.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter IX

After drying off in front of her fireplace, Hermione dressed slowly for dinner in one of her new knit sweaters and a plain black robe she saved for the weekends. She scrunched the rest of the moisture out of her curls, gathered her hair into a bundle on the back of her head and secured with pins. The casual up-do had become her signature hairstyle during graduate school—and with a swipe of red lip gloss, it wasn't a bad look, she reasoned.

The bath had calmed her, but now that she was out of the steamy comfort of her bathroom, reality was settling in and her stomach was a ball of nerves.

_It__'__s just dinner, Granger. Get it together._

She was feeling quite put-out by the entire Ron situation. Not to mention, she had several charts that needed reviewing, and the task was weighing on her mind. She'd never been very good at handling stress internally.

On one hand—if she was perfectly honest—she felt like crying. This feeling usually occurred when she was overwhelmed, confused, and stressed.

In many ways, she admitted, it felt _good_ to see Ron. Physically, he looked more handsome than she'd ever imagined he'd look as an adult, and an ache of longing had punched her in the gut the moment she set eyes on him outside of the Great Hall. They'd once been so compatible, so intimate. And she had missed him terribly when she left for Oxford, more than she could ever articulate.

After a while she had found ways to repress the hourly urge to owl him, but figured the distance was best for them both. Besides, she wasn't sure her resolve would have held if they had maintained consistent contact.

She missed him as her lover. She missed him as her friend.

But on the other hand, she was angry. Angry at what he had shouted at her in the hallway that afternoon, angry that he couldn't see how tormented she'd been after Voldemort was destroyed—why _else_ would she have wanted to leave? She didn't know how to reconcile with this magical, apocalyptic war she'd just experienced. She was Muggleborn, after all; it had been enough to convince herself that she wasn't just completely mad and inventing the past seven years all together.

She hadn't left because she didn't love him, but that's what he couldn't understand. And she wasn't sure if someone like that was right for her. What good is love if you have to justify it?

They were so young when they first fell in love, and that's what had scared her most. Ron had his goals, of course, but Hermione's own ambitions often disregarded love. How do you become an educated, powerful woman when your whole life is laid out in front of you in the form of a redheaded wizard?

Harry and Ginny had wasted no time in getting married just months after Ginny's 18th birthday. A few years later, now, and they already started a family. Hermione envisioned those events in her own life, too, but it was never in her plan to settle down so early. She'd noticed that the wizarding world had different philosophies on marriage and family than the Muggle society to which she was still accustomed.

She was afraid that loving Ron as much as she did—more than she ever thought was possible of her, honestly—meant risking herself, her identity, her dreams. It was all too easy to get wrapped up in that as a young woman. Her own mother had nearly given up her career to stay home with her when she was born; her mother also happened to be the one who encouraged her to go to Oxford.

And Hermione wasn't about to apologize for choosing that path. But perhaps they should have parted on better terms. She should have known that this would all come back up eventually, fresh and raw and just as painful as it was five years ago. It's not like she never expected to see him again—life just had a way of getting away from her, she felt.

_You know, Granger, the obvious thing to do would be to _talk _to him. Tell him how you feel. You__'__ve always been good at that._

"Oh hush!" she said to herself aloud. From her bed, Penelope blinked at the outburst.

She patted her cat on the head for luck, straightened her robes, and headed down to the Great Hall for dinner.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter X

Ron walked briskly toward the Great Hall, nearly salivating at the prospect of dinner. He trained regularly now using magical resistance bands—the reward for physical fitness was the freedom to gorge on his favorite foods. Weight had never been an issue for him, tall and once lanky as he was; but muscles and strength required maintenance, often in the form of several large meals a day. It was a much-welcome tradeoff.

He was just in the doorway of the hall when a voice called his name.

"_Ron!"_

He whirled around to see Hermione walking toward him, twisting her hands. Dressed simply in a black robe and jeans, she smelled like vanilla—clean and light, like the candles his mother loved. She looked much like she had as a teenager, and yet more beautiful now, and he was momentarily distracted by a flash of a memory—he pictured a younger her running toward him, books in hand, hair in disarray, flustered and hungry after a long day of classes.

He shook his head to clear the thought.

"What do you want, Hermione? I'm hungry." _Ron, you prat,_ he scolded himself. _You could have at least said hello._

A brief flicker of anger flashed on Hermione's face, but she maintained her composure.

"Is this really how it's going to be then? After all this time?" she replied cooly. "I thought we should talk."

He felt momentarily agitated, remembering their exchange over Malfoy that afternoon.

"What's there to talk about?" he snapped. "You made it pretty clear whose side you're taking these days."

Hermione bristled.

"It's not about taking sides!" she replied, clearly exasperated. She shook her head and a few wavy tendrils pulled loose from their pins. Ron tried not to pay too much attention to it—how lovely her hair looked when it was pinned away from her cheeks; the way the lip gloss—_lip gloss! on Hermione?_—enhanced the shape of her mouth; and her small hands, clenched into fists, the knuckles turning white.

He pursed his lips. "It's always about taking sides. That's life, Hermione. I thought you would have at least learned that while you were off at _college_."

"This was a mistake, trying to reason with you," she said, blushing with frustration and tugging at the sleeve of her robe. "You know, I actually wanted to just see you and have a _proper_ greeting—because, believe it or not, I've _missed_ you all these years!"

She took a deep breath. Ron steeled himself for the outburst.

"But apparently you'd rather shame my life choices, per usual," she continued. "You're angry with me because I left you to pursue my life goals and to heal myself, you're angry with me because I don't hex Malfoy's balls off every time I see him, you're always angry with me about something ridiculous." At this, her voice began to rise; students halted in their tracks to watch the exchange. "Well, you know what? I'm angry that you're still an immature prat, inconsiderate of my feelings or my perspective, and you continue to patronize me for wanting to go to one of the best colleges in the world. I won't apologize for my decisions, Ron—not to you and not to anyone!"

Ron was speechless. His pulse quickened, and abstract words cycled through his head—mean words, nice words, declarations, confessions. He opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again.

The stoic demeanor Hermione had been trying so hard to maintain was gone; tears spilled onto her freshly-pressed robes. She bit her lip and looked away, her arms crossed in front of her chest—he knew it was her way to prevent all-out sobbing in front of students.

_Well, shit. All I wanted was dinner._ He'd half-expected her to stay in her room avoiding him, but he should have known that she wouldn't do that.

_She said she missed me._

"Hermione—" he started, reaching out and touching her arm. Her face nearly crumpled in response to the gesture, but she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and moved away from his touch.

She brushed away his hand and turned away from him, shooing away the captivated students. He felt even worse when she went in the opposite direction of the Great Hall, and unsurprisingly, toward the direction of the library instead.

He stood for another moment, weighing his options.

"Well that didn't go well, did it?" a voice sneered from behind him.

Malfoy—the absolute last person he wanted to see. _Hadn__'__t he gotten the point?_ Apparently not, as he stood casually against a wall, his arms crossed. He smirked; he'd seen the whole exchange.

Ron balled his hands into fists. He was sure his face was bright red at this point, right up to his hairline. His temples were throbbing.

"Don't start with me, Malfoy," he seethed. It was all he could say through gritted teeth. "You're on my shit list. It's only out of respect for McGonagall that I don't kill you right here."

"You don't scare me, Weasley," Draco replied. Hermione's defense earlier appeared to have given Malfoy a sense of courage. "There's nothing you can do here to hurt me. So you might as well just deal with it."

Ron put his face close to Malfoy's, an intimidation technique he'd learned—and often employed—during interrogations. It was lucky, too, that he was just a bit taller than Malfoy.

"Don't. Tempt. Me," he said slowly. Malfoy's eyelids flickered nervously. Ah ha. I knew that would work on you, you coward.

He gave Malfoy a deserved shove and stalked off toward the Great Hall.

_The next person who prevents me from eating dinner is getting a dose of poison in their pumpkin juice._


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter XI

Draco was pleased to see Ron stalk off toward dinner, seething.

_Asshole._

Honestly, Draco was surprised that he'd decided to pick on Ron, after the panic attack he'd nearly experienced at the end of his wand earlier—but something about Hermione's reaction to Ron during their exchange had bothered him. Old habits died hard, he supposed. No matter how much they both had changed, something about Ron set Draco on edge.

But then Draco thought guiltily of Fred Weasley, and made a bitter resolution to leave Ron alone, despite his instincts to beat Ron to a pulp. He deserved Ron's scorn, even if the Weasley was no angel.

Although, truthfully, he was surprised at Ron's reaction to Hermione. _What the hell happened with those two?_

Draco wondered why he cared.

Draco had seen Hermione upset and put-out dozens of times as a teenager, but never expected her to seem so defeated. He hoped it was temporary. It made him uncomfortable.

_All that over a Weasley?_ He couldn't see it, although Draco knew his own track record with relationships was hardly comparable. Purely hormonal interactions with Pansy, a few dates with an older colleague in Budapest, but nothing substantial. He knew a pretty girl when he saw one, thanks to his father's philandering, but knew little of love. His parents' marriage had been stable enough, the lines of power clearly drawn. It wasn't until he'd started at Hogwarts that he'd learned that not all mothers doted on their children and husband without question, that not all women put their children in compromising situations, that not all wives stood passively back and chose corruption as the easy way out. Draco loved his mother, but he was still coming to terms with the childhood he now realized had been dangerous and toxic.

He hadn't known yet, even at 11 years old, that some women were different. And Hermione Granger's abrasive and bossy personality was one of his first tastes of that. Slytherin girls as a whole were a mixed bag—some were stronger in personality than others—but none of them had the ferocity of Hermione; her drive for knowledge and learning, her passion for house elves, her infuriating need to be _right_.

Those were qualities he'd grown to admire in people. The ability to stand up for good was harder than people understood. _Only the good think of goodness as a duty rather than a chore_, he thought.

Apparently, his subconscious agreed—without thinking, he'd spent the last few minutes walking toward the library.

The stacks were dimly lit, and a low hum of students working on weekend homework permeated through the bookshelves.

"Hermione!" he called after the petite figure walking through the stacks, her hands full. "Hang on a second."

"What is it, Draco?" she asked wearily, reaching the doorway of her office.

It was the first time he'd ever been near the librarian's area, even though he had spent more time at the library than most Slytherins. Out of curiosity, he took a peek inside—night had fallen outside, and the candles reflected little dots of light against the large windows of the room. A fire danced in the hearth against the right wall, friendly and inviting. Books were stacked everywhere, but her desk was moderately clean, save for a few old cups of tea.

There was even a chalkboard, on which components of the scientific method were scrawled in Hermione's neat handwriting.

He pictured himself sitting in the armchair near the fire, Hermione in the adjacent seat, discussing books over a cup of tea. A welcoming, but sudden, thought—and one he couldn't read too much into just yet.

Hermione raised an eyebrow and waited for him to speak. He was grateful that she wasn't crying anymore—he'd never been very good at dealing with displays of emotion. If anything, she appeared resolute. At this, he was relieved.

In one hand, she held several large charts, sketched onto parchment paper. In the other, a quill dripping with red ink.

"I saw you arguing with Weasley," he said. "I wanted to see if you were alright."

She draped the charts on one armchair and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, narrowing her eyes. A smudge of red ink lingered by her ear.

"His name is Ron, Draco," she said, her voice tired and raspy. "If I can call you by your first name, you can certainly call him by his. It's the least you can do, at this point." She sighed. "But yes. Things between us have been—well, unresolved for quite a few years now."

"I'm sorry," he said, not really meaning it. Quite honestly, support from Hermione would be easier without Ron hanging around.

"It's not your concern, anyhow," she said, brushing aside the comment. "Did you need something? I thought I'd try to get some work done this evening."

Truthfully, he had nothing else to say, other than that he'd felt compelled to see her. And he didn't know how to word that without sounding like a complete arse.

An idea popped into his head.

"I wanted to know if you wanted to go to the reunion dance with me?" he asked. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "As—friends, of course. Professor McGonagall thought it might be a good display of camaraderie." Well, that's a lie, but it's not a bad one, he reasoned.

Hermione balked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Um, friends?" Hermione hesitated. "That's an awful lot to ask. Are we friends? How could we be?" This appeared to be a rhetorical question, but it stung Draco nonetheless. Hermione continued. "I was really looking forward to seeing some of my friends. I can't imagine they'll be pleased to see you, Draco. But perhaps we can sit together at the feast? I can see if some Gryffindor and Slytherin students want to accompany us."

He surprised himself when his stomach sank in disappointment. He wasn't sure what he'd expected.

"It's just—there won't be many Slytherins at the reunion, given that most of them are, well, dead or in prison…" his voice trailed off.

"Well, there's good reason for that, isn't there?" Hermione said, scoffing. "I think it's admirable you want to represent your house, Draco, even if you and your comrades tried to kill everyone in our year." Draco winced at the comment, but if she noticed, she didn't acknowledge it. "I suppose we can walk in together as faculty members."

That's a start. "Alright, then."

They stared awkwardly at each other for a few moments. Hermione cleared her throat first. "I have things to work on tonight, but come by tomorrow around noon and we'll talk about some of the plans you had for the students. We should probably do something to encourage campus-wide friendship before the Slytherin and Gryffindor quidditch game next weekend ruins any chance at that."

"Yes, that's a good idea," he said, picking up the hint that he needed to leave. "Thanks, Hermione, for—" His voice unexpectedly caught in his throat. _For listening. For being fair even though I know I don__'__t deserve it._

She seemed to understand. "I know, Draco. Have a good night."

He walked back toward his room, his stomach fluttering in a way he never knew was possible.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter XII

The moment Draco was gone, Hermione shut her office door and sank into an armchair by the fireplace.

What a day.

She was shaken by the coldness with which Ron had treated her earlier; his hand on her arm momentarily distracted her, but it wasn't enough to block out the bitter tone he'd used when she first addressed him.

_I just wanted to tell you that I missed you, you idiot_, she cursed him mentally. He'd always been stubborn; it drove even Harry crazy at times, although Harry's patience for his friend usually held out longer than hers.

And now she couldn't even enjoy the Halloween reunion. She felt a sliver of sympathy for Draco, enough to do him the favor, but it meant sacrificing the potentially enjoyable evening because of it. Walking in with Draco Malfoy would hardly go over well with her Gryffindor peers; on the other hand, it's wasn't like going with Ron would be an option now, was it?

She'd be perfectly content to just go alone. After all, she was most looking forward to seeing Harry, Ginny and Neville. And even Luna, who she heard was still flighty as ever. She'd never been terribly fond of Luna—and suspected Luna felt similarly, even if she'd never express it—but the final battle at Hogwarts had been enough for them to put aside their differences. And after the past several years in the presence of Muggles, Luna's quirkiness would be a welcome encounter.

It'd been a long time that Hermione had seen her Hogwarts friends. She'd had lunch with Harry in London not long after his honeymoon, but for the most part, she'd chosen to keep her distance. It was easier for her to cope without being constantly reminded of everyone they'd lost.

She sank lower into the chair and sighed. It was probably time to admit to herself that she hadn't completely gotten over Ron. Truthfully, she hadn't really tried; her philosophy, per usual, had been to keep busy, delve into her studies, and think about the Big Picture of her life. She hadn't dated in college, although she'd been asked. Eventually, her dormmates had given up trying to set her up with handsome strangers.

It'd been hard for her to imagine opening up to someone new—physically and emotionally.

But despite her bookish tendencies, Hermione didn't see herself as prudish. A younger Hermione had responded to Viktor Krum without question, thoroughly taken aback by the attention from the international Quidditch star. She'd been quite attracted to him—the accent, the dark hair and eyes, the muscles. She'd felt positively small in his arms, and found that, for all her desire to be a feminist, she quite enjoyed the sensation of being tossed around during snogging sessions. And she'd certainly enjoyed the secret meetups around campus, kissing and touching in the rain, near the lake, giggling as he mispronounced her name (which eventually got old).

It never went beyond snogging and some brief fondling over the clothes—she'd been only 15 then, after all. She declined his invitation to visit him the summer after the Triwizard Tournament, unsure of becoming so serious with him so young. They exchanged letters for a while after that; Viktor was quite romantic and very attentive, but eventually they ceased correspondence as the war became increasingly dangerous. She saw him briefly at Bill and Fleur's wedding, but was distracted watching out for Harry and Ron, and they didn't get much of an opportunity to talk. Occasionally she wondered what he was up to these days.

But nothing compared to the intimacy she'd experienced with Ron. Dating one of her best friends had made things complicated for their friendship, but it had been so easy to start. There was none of the awkwardness that most early relationships face. If anything, it was a relief to finally touch each other without overthinking every gesture.

There was so much to learn about each other then. Sex had brought an entirely new element to their relationship, and they had spent their first few weeks together in a sense of wonderment about it.

It'd been, for Hermione, simultaneously the happiest and darkest time in her life.

And that was what made it dangerous for a woman like her. It would have been so easy to stay with Ron, to guide each other through the darkness, to start a family and find comfort in that. But eventually, Hermione knew, it wouldn't have been enough. There would come a day where lovemaking wouldn't be enough to help her sleep, when the presence of their family wouldn't be enough to placate the nightmares.

So she'd taken the long way out. She'd given up love for sanity—and up until now, it'd been worth it. Love and logic weren't mutually exclusive, Hermione knew, but it was hard to reason that when it was dependent on just getting through the day.

And she didn't know what to do now. To be so close to Ron again but to be at such odds was just _not_ going to work. It was getting to her head, and she had a job to do and students to think about. Something had to give.

What would happen if she went to his room and threw her arms around him? It was hardly a standard move she'd pull, but she'd rather do something to shake up the tension than to sit around worried that he'd suddenly appear around the corner ready to argue.

She made a quick pro-and-con list. Pro—he'd soften, and they'd be able to talk and find a way to go from here. Cons—he'd hex her. Well, he probably wouldn't go that far, but he could push her away and refuse to ever speak to her again. And that wasn't much different than how he was acting currently.

_Time to be bold, Hermione_, she told herself, taking a deep breath and turning off the light in her office. _There__'__s nothing left to lose_.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter XIII

Ron lay awake—with a satisfying full stomach, finally. Dinner had been quiet enough; he spent most of the evening chatting with Professor Levya about his experiences abroad.

He'd been careful to avoid the library on the route back to his room, but as luck would have it, it was inevitable; he'd have to pass it every day to get to the long staircase leading to the far tower. Despite Hogwarts' ever-changing layout, some of the older areas were less likely to have shifting staircases or suddenly invisible floors—apparently, those had been developments in the 1800s, where postmodern Transfiguration was the latest trend.

Regardless, he couldn't help but peek in as he passed. And of course, he saw Hermione standing in the doorway of her office, and that blond asshole walking away from her through the stacks.

He rolled over and punched his pillow. Why was this happening to him? It wasn't easy whatsoever seeing Hermione again, still furious with her and yet still very much in love with her—and yes, he was, if he admitted it to himself, which he did not want to do. He'd never really tried to not be.

But this would all be significantly easier to deal with if Draco Malfoy wasn't hanging around, being nice to Hermione._ What__'__s with his sudden interest in her, anyway?_ Malfoy had made it clear than any girl with blood less than pure wasn't worth his time, and Hermione hardly fit the bill. Not that Hermione was just any Muggle-born woman. Did he think that would be enough? That somehow sidling up to Harry Potter's best friend would show that he wasn't a bigoted, judgmental prick anymore? What was he trying to prove?

The thought of Malfoy touching Hermione, even just a handshake, made him sick. Bile rose at the back of his throat, and he turned on his side. He'd been jealous about Hermione's suitors loads of times, but this was different. To even consider Malfoy in that light was unthinkable.

He had enough faith left in Hermione that, even if she was tolerating Malfoy's presence again, there's no way in hell she'd let him get farther than a civil work relationship. She knew the difference between professional courtesy and being the subject of Malfoy's affection. Ugh. As if Malfoy was even possible of having normal feelings toward someone.

Intimacy with Hermione, Ron thought, was sacred—and he knew she felt similarly.

Their first time had been with each other, and he wouldn't have had it any other way.

He closed his eyes, remembering her mouth on his, her hair falling over her shoulder and onto his face when she moved on top of him, his mind drifting back to the memory.

Both he and Hermione chose to stay at Hogwarts to help with the rebuild effort, facilitated by Professor McGonagall. He couldn't bear to be at the Burrow, not without Fred; and besides, Ginny and Harry, too, had planned to stay, at least for a few days.

He didn't want to be alone, and Hermione, too, looked lost for once. His head swam with adrenaline, grief and relief.

Hand in hand, he and Hermione walked to the dormitory that would have been his had they not been on the run for the majority of the school year. The room was empty, the floor covered with torn linens. Trunks and dressers had been stacked up for shelter, but whatever inhabitants had taken momentary shelter in the dormitories had evacuated. Ron tried not to think about children—first years, second years—running for their lives, many of which had chosen to join the fight they shouldn't have been in danger from in the first place.

They kissed each other hard and hurriedly, their faces covered in soot and tears and dust, pulling at their clothes and tumbling into the four-post bed. Hermione drew the curtains around them; as she did so, the dim afternoon light leaked through a crack, illuminating her hair and catching the warm brown of her eyes.

Once naked, he stared at her, unable to comprehend that the unclothed woman in front of him was Hermione Granger, the love of his life—he'd thought that even then. This person he'd known since they were 11 years old. Her eyes flashed, but no smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Like him, she was still reeling from the fear they'd just experienced, avoiding the inevitable post-trauma stress they would both face. At this moment they had never been more alike.

Hermione was finally his to kiss and touch, and touch he did—he ran calloused hands over her shoulders and along her collarbone, cupped her small breasts, identified the heat at the small of her back. She left a trail of kisses along his neck, hands clasped around his chest. She took one of his hands and guided it to the wetness and heat between her legs, and he moaned into her shoulder.

This was it—there was no holding back, and he grabbed her by the waist, flipping her onto her back. She drew her legs up, her heels on his calves. For a moment they stared at each other.

"Is this going to hurt you?" he asked.

"Um—" she bit her lip. "I've read it might. But I don't think it will—just do it." She lifted her hips, noted his hardness, and cocked an eyebrow. "Please."

He used his hand to guide himself between her legs, sliding in before finding the tension there; with a deep breath, he pushed into Hermione, and she shouted out.

He didn't move. "Oh, god. Are you alright?"

"Yes—yes. Just keep going, OK?"

He moved slowly at first, maintaining a steady rhythm—in and out, in and out, it's so simple but it's enough to drive you mad.

He didn't know how much longer he would last, and Hermione still winced with each thrust.

"Can you go a bit faster?" she asked. "Don't hold back."

He took that as the green light. He thrust into her, burrowing his face into her hair—it must have worked, because Hermione arched into him in response. He put his hands against the bed for leverage, and she clawed at his back, murmuring and gasping into his ear.

She kissed his mouth as he came and he swore he saw stars.

After that, they'd had a hard time keeping their hands off one another. Making Hermione writhe with pleasure consumed his thoughts, and she seemed to have no objection to frequent lovemaking. Learning each other's bodies was far different and much more intimate than he'd ever imagined sex could be—seeing her face as she cried out, her eyes flutter when he entered her, her arched back as she straddled his lap, was like seeing Hermione from the inside out. Unbridled, unburdened, and certainly much wilder. It was enthralling and enticing, and he was unabashedly in love with her as a result.

Together they'd found a way to cope: make love and sleep. Eventually, it would have been enough for him to find some solace in the pain. But after a while, Hermione began to grow distant, rejecting his attempts at intimacy, her eyes puffy from crying and a lack of sleep.

When Hermione had announced that she was leaving, Ron, quite literally, wanted to die. Harry had been there, at least, and they'd signed up for Auror academy almost immediately. It helped to be busy; Ron finally understood why Hermione sought out tasks when she was feeling overwhelmed. One thing at a time cleared his mind, but it never quite released the constant aching sensation in his chest.

Before he knew it, it was five years later and he hadn't moved on. Not even close. And it didn't look like she had, either.

And here he was now, at Hogwarts again, lying awake alone, his insides a bundle of nerves, nearly sick with anguish.

He started to fall into a restless sleep—he envisioned Harry, surrounded by lights and fire; and Hermione, running away from him and into a dark forest; his twin brothers, both of them, laughing as they always did in his dreams, when he heard a knock on the door, quiet and hesitant at first, then growing louder once unanswered.

He sat up in bed, alert. Someone _was_ knocking.

He slid out of bed and pulled on his pajama bottoms; peeking through the doorhole, he saw nothing.

Was this a prank? If this was Malfoy fucking with him, that tow-headed prat would have a tall, angry, trained Auror to answer to.

But he opened the door, and Hermione Granger tumbled into his arms.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter XIV

All at once, Hermione felt strong, stable arms close around her. And a moment later, Ron's lips were on hers, kissing her in a fervor.

She threw her arms around his neck and fell into him. His hands moved everywhere on her; holding her face with his two hands to kiss her harder, then moving to pull the pins from her hair so he could bury his fingers in it, and then back to her waist to hold her tight against him.

"Oh, Hermione," he moaned into her mouth. She couldn't tell if she was trembling, but she felt like she was shaking so hard she'd fall apart.

He pulled away suddenly, her face in his hands.

"I just need to look at you," he said, his voice low and thick. She bit her lip. "I've dreamt of this moment every day for the past five years. I can hardly think straight."

Relief flooded her, and she smiled as he looked over her face.

"You look fucking amazing," he said, laughing in disbelief. "You look the same, but different."

"So do you," she said, giggling—giggling!—and reaching to run a finger along his jaw. He caught her hand and kissed her palm. The tenderness of the gesture hit her straight in the heart.

He looked at her, serious. "I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said to you today. For how I acted. I just—" he cut off, unable to continue.

Hermione balked. An apology was _not_ what she had expected. She felt herself practically melting. _Slow your roll, girl_, she thought to herself.

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't know what to do when I saw you, so I panicked." She bit her lip. "I would _never_ side with Draco Malfoy over you, don't you know that? But we have to be _civil_."

He rolled his eyes, a move so endearingly characteristic that Hermione wanted nothing more than to jump into his arms again.

"I don't care about him, Hermione," he said. He pulled her to him again, pushed her hair back from her face, and hesitated. "Honestly, I'm a little at a loss for what to do right now."

Touching Ron again set Hermione on fire. It'd been so long since she'd been just embraced by someone.

"Oh, Ron," she said, her heart full. "I missed you. I know we have things to talk about, but I just need you to know that, OK?"

He evaluated her again, and then bent to kiss her—slowly this time, as if he was savoring her, and she let him.

She closed her eyes and lost herself in the bliss.

Objectively, it felt _good_ to be touched by someone again.

Hermione knew, logically, that she'd pay for this later. There was a lot of bad blood between her and Ron, but it was simmering in the background now, not raging at a full boil like it once was. They were enveloped in the steam, but it was with love, the tendrils of it that they hadn't quite pushed away entirely.

She knew they needed to talk. They were, in so many ways, completely different people than they once were. She knew that, but for this sweet moment, she didn't care.

She was a twentysomething woman who hadn't been with anyone for several years, and she planned on enjoying it.

And Ron was all over her like a torrential storm, and it was familiar and startling all at once. _Where__'__d he learn to kiss like_ that_?_ she wondered wildly, as he kissed her with an enticing balance of rough and tender, and it was turning her inside out.

He unbuttoned her robe and pushed it off her shoulders, and it fell to her feet; his hands slipped under the hem of her sweater, along her stomach, up to the soft, sensitive space underneath her breasts—her favorite spot to be touched. She was surprised he remembered that, but it was working.

In one fluid movement he backed her to his bed, pulled off his shirt and knelt before her. He put his mouth against her stomach, running his hands up her sides and pushing off her camisole and sweater until she, too, was bare. Slowly, he unbuttoned her jeans, and she felt hot puffs of his breath against her navel. The yearning between her legs was unbearable and she wanted him on top of her now.

Her fingers found his hair, and without meaning to, she pulled. He looked up at her and grinned mischievously. "If you think I'm not doing everything I can to savor this, you might be wrong for the first time in your life," he said, his voice low.

He began inching her pants and underwear down her legs, bit by bit, kissing as he went. Hermione's head lolled back, and she sighed at each touch of his mouth. After what seemed like eternity, he eased her back onto the bed and pulled her pants and shoes off her feet. His pajama bottoms were off soon after, and he flowed over her, expertly positioning himself above her.

Again, he grinned. She pulled her knees up and arched into him, but instead he kissed her, slid his arm under her back, and flipped them both over, sliding her onto him as he did.

Hermione's eyes shot open—by the practiced move, and him being inside her once again. It felt amazing, like something lost was now found, and she tried not to read into it too much. He sat with his back upright, her straddled around him, and he held her hips and moved her against him. She realized that she wasn't actually moving; it was all him, controlling the speed and the angle, and she was surprised at his ability to do that and kiss her neck and ear at the same time. The technique was impressive and effective, and she felt suddenly wild and uninhibited.

_Who is this man and what did he do with the Ron I knew? she thought passively_. Ron had always been a passionate lover, learning whatever he could to make her happy. But that was child's play compared to the lover he was now.

She pushed him down to the bed and onto his back to take control, and found a rhythm with her hips, and it was working for him, too—she knew him well enough by the flicker of his eyelids and the parting of his mouth. He wasn't the only one who remembered what worked.

They moved together, synchronized like ships on the same torrential sea, and she let herself go.


End file.
